Wasting space

If a space opened up where I sit right now,
that would be fine.
Nature abhors a vacuum,
so someone would fill it.

People need me, I know that.
But where they need clarity and reason,
all I can write is poetry, and
where they need action,
I
blink
a good deal,
and
where they need coherency,
I either laugh or cry.
(Sometimes both.)

I make lists I can't follow
and plans that don't pan.
My mind and body are strangers to me,
to each other.
I can't hear the future because the past won't stop echoing.

I know people care about me.
I know I should respond,
but what to say?
It isn't that I have no words, but I've said them all before,
again and again.
There is nothing new in my mind or my soul.

The disturbing thing is, I don't feel bad.
I'm simply no longer myself—
an exact replica with the same scars on the outside,
but no fingerprints on the inside.
It's only when called upon to do what she did
that I find myself wishing
for a space in my place.



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